The Circus Ring
by Je Sono Aka
Summary: Phillip Carlyle has a more complicated, serious past than any member of the circus thought he had. When Phillip begans acting strangely, PT and Anne have no idea what is going on with the second ringmaster. Add his parents to the equation, and the two have a mystery in their hands. (PT never quit the circus; post movie)
1. Prolouge

Phillip Carlyle always knew he never belonged in this life. He was the second child born to Margret and Arthur Carlyle. They were happy, at first. Phillip, in their eyes, would be the perfect child. The child that his older brother by six years, Edwin, could never be.

He was five when he started to show his parents wrong. He was creative, ingenious. He could do and solve things kids his age shouldn't even begin to comprehend. His parents were proud, and he was moved up two levels in his school. At school, there was a girl who was born with a defect, and had eyes set to far apart and no eyebrows or eyelashes. Children stayed away from her, but not Phillip. Phillip, who was her first friend. Phillip who was supposed to be the prefect child, the handsome, intelligent, the one to make Edwin jealous; not a friend to a freak.

He was eight when it happened. He was pulled out of school, and his father decided he would school him. Phillip, or Phil as he had been called by his deformed friend, had cried and pleaded why? His father had looked into his innocent blue-gray eyes and had simply said "discipline".

Home schooling was hard and boring. His father always pushed him, and kept him away from anything that seemed to be "not for his place." He couldn't draw or paint. He couldn't play soccer with the boys on the street. He wasn't even allowed to play pretend with his brother! He was, though, allowed to read. He was allowed to write, and it was from there that his future career of a playwright began. He could express what he wanted to do in words, his creativity flourishing across the page, colors flourishing in his minds in a way his parents had banned him from. Words were his life, now, and continued to be so with his entrancing penmanship with the fountain pen until he was ten.

Phillip was ten when it happened. He and his brother had grown close, Edwin even helping out with his writings. Edwin was even the one who taught Phil a differently writing style than the usual novelists, and had introduced him to the world of plays. He had walked into his older brothers room, bursting with joy about the first play he had wrote. It was about two brothers who helped each other find joy and happiness in a bland, plain world. He had walked in and saw his brother hanging from a noose, a letter connected to his shirt by sealing wax. He had screamed for his mother amd father before grabbing the letter and quickly reading it in Edwin's bed, ignoring the still figure hanging a foot off the ground. He had been unhappy with his life, unhappy with his parents unliking for himself and happiness and joy towards Phillip. He had wished Phillip a happy nice, and to see people for who they truly are, and to be his own man. His parents had rushed into the room, his mother breaking down and father cutting Edwin down. He had snatched the letter from Phillip, furry in his eyes after reading it, and had said words that changed his life forever. "Phillip Carlyle, you will no longer ever leave this house. You will be disciplined. You are the reason Edwin died." His mother had cradled Edwin's body as his father had dragged Phillip to the dark, cold cellar and locked him in.

It had been six years since Edwin, his best friend, had died. Phillip was now sixteen, and he denied everyone, even his mother, from ever calling him Phil. Once sun kissed, beautiful skin had gone pale. Once warm, emotional, curious eyes had gone cold, wary, piercing, and untrusting. Writings once filled with emotion, joy, and color were now serious, moral, and penetrating. He was used to the beatings. His father would yell at him for any tony mistake. Imperfect penmanship, incorrect grammar, insufficient word usage, a mistake in a math problem...life was living hell.

His mother never knew about the abuse. Years ago, his father had drilled into him that he was now useless, pathetic, and a burden. He was a burden to his father, and will not be one for his mother. He always wore a collared shirt and pants to cover the bruises, cuts, and scars. His back was littered with the lashes lf a belt or the horses whip. His torso and legs often had bruises. He had long ago found out how to deal with the pain. The best way to deal with pain was with pain, and that was how his brothers pocket knife had become his best friend.

When he was twenty, his works were finally published. All of them except for his first play. It was basically his life story, and he continued adding to it. The brothers were unnamed, and he had made the elder die by the others fault. He made the brothers life a living hell, filled with a very abusive father and serious depression. He wrote of the brothers slow but sure deterioration. He wrote about the brother's play career. He even finished to drawing he had meticulously, secretly drew for ten years: a drawing of his happy brother and a stoic him.

Alcohol drowned his sorrows and made life a little easier to bear with. His arms had self inflicted scars, a deep ones on his wrist and running from his wrist to the crook of his elbow, when he was about to end it all, but had turned back just before he went beyond nicking an artery. His parents loved his income from the successful plays and filled theatre's, but it didn't bring any joy to him.

He was twenty-two when he was found by Phineas Taylor Barnum. He was on the side of the road when the man had come up to him and offered to buy him a drink. Phillips heart had pounded. He was rarely allowed outside the home, and everything was an adventure to him. He read the papers, and had heard of Mr. Barnum and his show. It had been going on for a few months, and he had seen the happiness on the exiting audience's face. Honestly, he loved the circus Barnum had made just from what he heard. Collecting multiple types of people as equals, not treated them as the so-called "freaks" the papers called them.

He had gone inside the bar, and Phineas had almost immediately made the offer. It was stunning his performance, his fingers dancing in front of his face, his words spun into a song. His answer was yes, but his parents? Years of abuse on his fathers hand made him fear disobedience, so he got up to leave, grabbing his hat before he hears, "but I guess I'll leave that up to you?" he had stared at the door before smiling for the first time in more than a decade, and it reached his eyes, turning his eyes innocent as they once were before turning back into their piercing cold orbs. Then, his world had burst into color. He danced, put up the show. Made a deal and ran with Barnum to the circus, where he traded hats with Barnum and tipped his hat at a bearded lady who then laughed. And then he saw her, the most beautiful thing he's ever seen swinging from the trapeze. Her name was Anne, he learned, and then he said "I din't have an act" and she left, Phillip feeling more useless than ever. But now, he smiles. He was part of the circus. And his act? Well, if he could stretch it a bit, it would be to discover freedom.

And that is where his world began.


	2. Chapter 1

Phillip sits straight at the his desk, adjacent to Barnum's currently vacant one. It had only been two weeks since he was let out of the hospital, and one week since the circus debuted their first show in a tent. Now, he was looking over purchase records, trying to find out what to buy while trying not to aggravate the large burns in his back.

"Hey, Phil." Says a warm, rich voice. The young man looks up, annoyance in his usually hard eyes.

"PT. I'm just going over some records." And he looks back down at the papers, the end of his fountain pen touching his lip before he quickly scribbles out another note. He can just feel Barnum's gaze in him from his position in the doorway.

"Are you alright?" Says the older man, finally. He was concerned about his 'junior assistant'. The younger had been looking more tense of lately, and still kept to wearing a full outfit, even in late summer, unlike the other men who rolled up their sleeve's in the exhausting heat.

"Yes, I'm fine." Says Phillip without even looking up, not missing a beat as he turns the page.

"How's your back?" Says PT as casually as he can. He can see it hits something as Phillip's hand suddenly tenses. It was unspoken to talk about the fire, especially with Phillip, but he had seemed off as of late, becoming less jovial and interactive. Phillip bites his lip and looks up at Barnum.

"Honestly? Not too good." His heart sighs with relief that Phillip hadn't gotten angry or anything, but now he was concerned. He walks towards him and frowns.

"The doctor's said it should be healed by now." Phillip shrugs.

"Its not that bad. It just hurts a bit sometimes. Mostly when I'm stretching over bending over for a long period."

"Do you want me to take a look at it?" Says PT, and suddenly he see's a change. Phil's eyes widen, fear showing in the commonly icy blue-grey orbs.

"No." He say's, voice shaky.

"Are you sure?" Says PT. "There is nothing to be scared of, I win't do anything, just take a look." Phillip quickly shakes his head, rapidly blinking before taking taking a deep breath and exhaling. He looks at PT, now obviously forcing calmness.

"Thank you for you offer, Barnum" he says, "but I will be alright. Now, if you excuse me, I must get back to these papers and you must continue rehearsing." Barnum hesitates before nodding and leaving. Phillip, waiting a few moments after Barnum leaves, gets up and walks to his small tent where he slept.

The very small area was filled only by boxes where he had his clothes sorted in, a small bag filled with stationary equipment, a suitcase of necessities,

a makeshift cot made of worn and old sheets and quilts, a lantern, and a full length mirror. He takes one look at himself in the mirror, his own piercing eyes meeting his reflections before tearing off his shirt, turning around to see his back.

Honestly, he should get someone to check it out.

The burn was fading, but it still hurt. It ran from between his shoulders blades to his lower back, and was crossed by the scars that ran over his back. Some were almost gone, those from his childhood, but some were dark, the ones from before the circus.

Maybe he'll go back into town and see a local doctor. He frowns. No, everyone knew about him, Phillip Carlyle, the once perfect but now mislead son of Margret and Arthur Carlyle. It would cause riots in the papers, how the circus made his back marred by a burn, and then faux stories of the scars, like a reckless childhood or abuse from the circus. He couldn't let any of that happen, so instead he chooses that he will just let the burn naturally heal, maybe getting some ointment...

He uses his foot to kick up his shirt, catching it in his hand before gently pulling it on, buttoning his shirt.

"Maybe I can tell Anne..." he shakes his head. He wasn't strong enough, not yet. Not string enough to tell anyone face to face. He twists his head and looks at an old, thick packet laying on top of a suitcase. His first play... he quickly puts it away before exiting his tent to watch the rehearsal,

He wasn't even strong enough for the memories.


	3. Chapter 2

"What is this?" Says Phillip, awkwardly standing and looking with confusion at everyone. His burn was doing really nicely, no longer easily aggravating since he started putting on ointment three days ago. PT looks up at him from where he sat on the sheet covered floor.

"Story time." Says the ringmaster simply, as if it explains it all. Everyone was sitting down in a circle, a pretty large circle, and were chattering amongst each other. Phineas taps the area beside him, which was also next to Anne. Phillip holds back a smile, instead sighing and joining the rest of the troupe on the ground,

"So, what is the point of this 'story time'?" Questions the young man, a bit nervous. He didn't exactly have a lot good memories.

"Why do ya' ask?" Says Lettie, seven people to his left. "Yur just a rich kid!" They all chuckle at that, Phillip forcing a smile. Did he even tell them he was unofficially disowned? He was just wait8g for the letter of confirmations!

"Well" says PT, clapping his hands together like a little kid before desert. "The person to your left or right asks you a question, and you have to tell them a memory, or a story, about the answer!" The cheerful man's answer was confusing with the speed and raw excitement he talked with, but somehow, they all understood what he said. "Think of this as a way to let go of all the misery we've had" he says. "You make your story any tine, we'll cry and laugh with you." And with that, the stories began, and Phillip became a bit less nervous.

The Irish Giant was actually born to a Scandanavian dad.

Lettie's dad was the inly person that treated her normally before she met PT.

Charles could walk in thin ice,

WD and Anne learned the trapeze after accidentally getting stuck 8 a set of hanging ropes.

PT had worked on the railroads since from when he was thirteen to twenty-four. At that, Phillip could of sworn he heard someone say "so that explains his bod."

There were some sad stories, and some happy ones, Some people even went twice! Phillip smiled a lot, and when PT looked over to see how his 'assistant' was doing, he could see that his icy haze was no linger cold, but curious as he learned more about each member of his makeshift family. And then, it came to Phillip.

"Please give me an easy one" quietly whispers Phillip. He see's Anne smile, obviously having heard him. Now, here was the moment they all waited for: learning about Phillip Carlyle.

"So, Phillip" says Anne. "Do you have any siblings?" Phillip was socked at this one, and it flashed briefly in his eyes. His muscles tense, and they can all tell that it was a sensitive topic for the former playwright.

"Um...well..." he takes a deep breath before starting, a small smile on his face. "Yes. I had a sibling." He can see some moving forward a bit, intrigued.

"Well, go on." says PT tentatively.

"His name was Edwin." He says, cautious of the past tense wordings he chose. "He was six years older than me, so he would be twenty-eight right now. He was the best older brother, even though my parents didn't really like him. He was, as I am now, "a disgrace to society", and truth be told, he loved it!" They all laugh, and PT nudges Phillip, knowing how much he now also enjoyed being a disgrace.

"He actually was the one who got me into play-writing. I was ten, he sixteen, when I had finished the first few chapters of my first play." They smile, trying to imagine how a young child's play would be like. Phillip's suddenly nervous. Does he want to continue? They would understand either way, but no one had talked about death yet.

"I wanted to show him what I wrote, but he was dead." This come's as a shock to everyone. They thought he had the perfect life!

"How...how did he die?" Says one of the conjoined twins. They probably couldn't understand the trauma of losing the other.

"I'd actually went into his room" says Phillip, "to show him my writing, but he was dead."

"Natural causes?" Says Charles. Phillip shakes his head, swallowing. His throat was suddenly dry.

"No...he was hanging from a noose. Suicide." Anne drapes an arm over his shoulders and embraces him, Phillip not allowing the tears to fall.

"Well..." says PT, trying to avoid an awkward situation. "We have a show tonight. Go get the ring ready." Everyone gets up, Anne still hugging him as people quickly say their condolences. Now, it was only Anne and Phillip. They stand up, Phillip's head bowed, but she holds onto his hands, her thumbs gently stroking their backs.

"Phillip, I...I'm sorry. I shouldn't of asked that question." He shales his head, head still cast down, but she releases one hand, putting hers beneath his chin, lifting his head up. Those beautiful blue-grey orbs were warm and innocent right now, but she knew they would become cold, piercing, icy, holding back emotion. She wondered if that single death made his eyes that way.

"It's not your fault, Anne" he says. "I... I actually want to say thank you. It isn't...it isn't exactly healthy for me to keep so many things bottled up. You allowed me to be free of one thing." He lets a tear fall, and Anne hugs him, softly singing to him until she knows he's not crying anymore.

"Phillip Carlyle" she says, brushing the wetness from his cheeks. "I understand. Its okay to be you when you want. Sometime's, I think you aren't the former bratty rich kid everyone thinks you might of been. Sometimes, I think you are like us, a renegade of the circus ring." He smiles.

"Thank you, Anne." They stare into each other's eyes, before Anne quickly stands up on her toes and kisses his forehead, before stepping back.

"I'm going to warm up. Just know this, Phillip Carlyle: you can always rewrite the stars."


	4. Update

So, um, hey readers! It's been a long time ince I've update _anything_ on . So, first of all, all of my fics on this platform were finger-tapped-out by me on an ipad mini, so my fingers hurt after a while and updates were slow, chapters had a lot of errors, and the quality honestly sucked. So I took the cowards path and just stopped posting. Well, a few months ago, my dad got me a laptop! And I forgot all about my fanfic account because I've been using AO3 (username: Kono_Rohan_Da) and posting fics on that. But now I will, in the foreseeable future, be updating and editing and even re _writing_ some of my incomplete fics! So, if I've left any of you at a cliff hanger, I'm so sorry. If you want to know what would of happened, email me at rohan. and I'll send you a thorough summary of what would happens after where I left off, because it's still iffy if I'll actually update any of my fics on sincd its been so long.

-JeSonoAka


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